Best Served Cold
by Eternal Contradiction
Summary: Rippner was dead, freeing her from the ties he had formed after the first hello, but also from older ones which were so ingrained on her psyche she couldn’t identify them as anything other than a part of herself. Slight JxL. Revengefic, but not his.


His body was carted off by paramedics, and Lisa couldn't help but watch the emergency vehicle leave, with her hands clasped before her chest, wringing her fretful fingers and letting the scratchy blanket given to her for the chills of shock wracking her tiny body fall from her shoulders and land in a forgotten heap on the ground. The ambulance roared away in a rush of screaming sirens, signifying life in the occupant being tended to in the back. She was torn between relief that the horrendous stretch of evening was over, and worry that if he lived, it never would truly be finished. In that moment, she couldn't help but hope for his quick death, even though a small part of her held on to long ingrained morals to never wish harm on another human being. An even smaller part of her hoped he survived for purely selfish reasons, but she readily ignored it.

A subtle clearing of throat brought her back into reality. She realized that even though the sirens were a distant wail on the way to the hospital, her eyes were still rooted to the spot where it had been sitting. Lisa turned her attention back to the federal officer standing a little to her left. She was sitting in the back of a second ambulance, the doors were wide open and she was sitting in the doorway, feet barely touching the ground. She felt as though she had shrunk in size, now a diminutive child who needed to be coddled. She had, for a moment as she swung with the field-hockey stick, felt powerful in the midst of helplessness.

She had liked it.

"I'm sorry," she told the Fed, referring to the fact that the moment they had carted Jackson out of her father's house in a gurney, she had broken off all conversation and stared with an intensity she had barely noticed. Absently, she rubbed the pure white gauze covering the wound on her forehead from where he had head-butted her. "I didn't mean to blank out on you," she said with her most charmingly apologetic fake smile.

"You've been through a traumatic experience," he replied, and though his words sounded sincere and sympathetic, Lisa recognized a carbon-copied template of appropriate responses when she heard one. She had a list of them herself which she used every day while working at the Lux. "Now start at the beginning. Tell me about this man you call 'Jack'."

Lisa sighed, hearing the steel beneath the officer's voice and knowing that though the terror was over, the aftermath of dealing with it had only begun. "He introduced himself as Jackson Rippner."

"Jackson Rippner?" The officer replied, before Lisa could wonder why his voice sounded slightly more surprised than it should, he followed up the question with, "As in Jack the Ripper? Amusing guy."

"I thought so too," she murmured back. "Particularly when he was throwing me down the stairs." Though her reply was sarcastic, belying the stress and emotional upheaval she had experienced in the last twelve hours, she couldn't help but remember that he was partially right. Jackson had charmed and amused her enough that the completely reversal in his character still sent a morbid chill down her spine.

"Let's start at the beginning," the Federal Officer suggested, "I must remind you that I am taping our conversation. Tell me about the…" He was cut off from unsubtly collecting information by the beep of a cell phone coming from the recesses of some pocket in his dark wool suit. Lisa occasionally watched repeats of FBI thriller shows on TV during her bouts of insomnia, which happened far more often than she liked to admit, and was surprised to find that a lot of the clichés and characterizations were true. Thinking about that stopped her mind from wandering to things she would rather forget for a blessed two seconds. The FBI agent pulled his phone out, barking "Rogers," into it as he moved further out of earshot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her father was finished giving his statement, and was currently holding an animated conversation with Detective Bowler. The member of the local precinct was out of uniform, almost unrecognizable as a cop except to those who knew him. Her father gestured emphatically, and Lisa knew he was talking about her. She narrowed her eyes.

"Miss Reisert?" Rogers asked, stepping into her line of sight. She looked up at him wearily, not understanding the mixture of sympathy, frustration, and regret in his voice. "Rippner was pronounced dead upon his arrival at the hospital."

Lisa sagged against the frame of the ambulance door. "It's over?" she asked in a relieved whisper, not even noticing that tears were streaming down her face again.

"I need to speak with your father. You will not speak to anyone until I come back."

Lisa nodded, tired of arguing. She didn't think she could speak to anyone at the moment.

"The man who is with him?" Rogers urged, trying to collect as much information before walking into the situation.

"Family friend." Her voice was hollow.

Once Rogers left, she blanked out, no longer really connected to her senses. All she could think of was that she had effectively killed two men, and though it was likely that in the eyes of the law she was only defending herself, she could still feel the blood soaking her hands. Bowing her head, she mourned for the loss of her own innocence. She hadn't thought she could fall even further from herself than she had after the incident two year ago which had left her scarred physically, emotionally, and psychologically, but it was obvious that she was wrong. Her mind kept lingering on stabbing that darn Frankenstein's monster pen into Jackson's throat. She had thought it was fitting – a monster for a monster – but now she knew she was no better.

Rippner was dead, freeing her from the ties he had formed after the first hello, but also from older ones which were so ingrained on her psyche she couldn't identify them as anything other than a part of herself. She felt a fervent desire for retribution.

Lisa wept, finally alive.

* * *

.x.

"I'm fine, daddy," she swore, giving her father a smile. Exactly four months, two weeks, three days, fourteen hours, twenty-some minutes and a few seconds after Jackson died – she considered that the exact end of the Red Eye Incident, and tried not to look too far into the reason she kept track of the passing time using it as a landmark – her father still gave her concerned looks every two minutes, called her before, after, and sometimes during work, and made sure she came over for a visit at least once a week. For some reason, time just seemed different to Lisa now. She noticed each passing second, as it brought her further away from things she would never forget, and closer to the new life she was trying to carve out for herself.

"You look pale," her father observed with concern borderlining on obsession. "I had invited Bob over for the game, but if you're tired I can disinvite…"

"Don't be silly," Lisa berated softly. "If I'm tired, I'll go home and go to bed early and let you have your man time." She was quickly chopping English cucumber for a salad, barely noticing the way her fingers deftly moved with the knife. For a few weeks after Jackson had chased her around the house with that wicked blade of his, she could barely use a butter-knife without feeling nauseated. Tonight was what she had began to think of as required father-daughter time. She didn't begrudge it, just wished they could go back to more innocent times where the only problem stifling the air was the fact she had gotten caught sneaking in late from a party.

"I'll cancel," her dad told her from where he was stirring rea, home-made spaghetti sauce on the stove with a wooden spoon. With one hand he groped for the phone hanging on the wall.

"Don't you dare," she warned, pointing the knife at him without noticing. Her voice was serious. "I'm not going to break, so you may as well drink some beer and watch football."

Her father's face froze and he eyed the knife. "Leese," he said with a pained look in his eye.

Lisa dropped the knife quickly, stepping back from the counter. She knew he hadn't thought she was threatening him, but just the way she had been holding it drudged up thoughts they would rather not think about. It was the first time Lisa really noticed that her father seemed to be having far more trouble getting over the fact that a madman had tried to kill his little girl, than Lisa did. Just the fact that he was hypersensitive to weapons in the room, even if she was the one holding it, spoke volumes. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I didn't notice."

Her dad smiled, but it was strained. "That's a good thing, I think."

Lisa smiled wanly, going back to making a salad. They finished preparing the meal in silence. Lisa set the table for two, it not escaping her notice that most women her age would associate double place-settings as a romantic affair, but for her it meant that once again she was at home eating supper with her dad. The outgoing girl she once was couldn't help but feel a tiny bit pathetic, served with a side-dish of self-pity, that her life had fallen to this. Sometimes, she felt as though she were trapped in her own life, unable to break out and just live. Other times – for the most part, even – she relished the feeling of solitude.

They ate in silence as well, punctuated with the odd relapse into small-talk. She and her father had never really been good with idle chitchat.

She was almost relieved when the doorbell rang and her father left to let in his football, beer-guzzling, man-buddy. "Bob's here," her father called over his shoulder. Lisa felt her body tense, her fingers digging into the edges of the silver fork handle she was clutching. Disgusted, she dropped the utensil, barely noticing as it clanged on the cheap china her father used for every-day eating. Lisa gathered up all the dirty dishes and began to wash, readily ignoring the muted sounds of the game on TV coming from the living room. Harder still, she tried to ignore the more obvious conversation between her father and his friend.

"Lisa's here?"

"She's a good girl."

Said good girl whipped around from the sink, attacking the leftovers from supper with saran wrap. She hated it when her father talked about her as if she were a little angel. She didn't think the halo befitted her anymore, and it hadn't for a long time. Worse still, she supposed, would be if he had made her seem fragile, his poor daughter still recovering from the incident. She supposed the really couldn't win.

"She's better than my own daughter," Bob said with a chuckle. In lower tones, "How has she been?"

"I worry."

"She's been through a lot, the poor dear."

She grabbed the glass casserole dish off the table, flinging it at the wall as a sudden fury took over. The spaghetti and tuna concoction splattered against the soft blue wall, clinging obstinately to the surface and mocking her with the aftermath of her moment of rage. The dish itself bounced, landing on the floor with a loud shatter. Shards of glass went everywhere, and Lisa merely stared at it blankly. She felt as though her own brittle control broke with the dish, and she felt like screaming, crying, and dying all at once.

"Lisa, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

She whipped around, already on edge, ready to demand that her father stop asking her that. Instead, the other man stood there, the one who was her father's good friend.

"I'm fine Detective Bowler," she replied with a tight smile.

He chuckled. "You've known me almost all your life," he said with a small shake of his head. "You used to call me uncle Bob."

"Yes," Lisa conceded. That had also been before.

He clucked his tongue, looking at the mess of pasta and glass she had made in the clean kitchen. "Why don't I help you clean up this mess?"

He moved forward, grabbing some of the larger shards of glass from the mess. He stuffed them into a bag, cleaning up the worst of it efficiently. "I'm gonna drop this in the dumpster. Don't move a muscle, I probably missed some glass."

Lisa froze, body trembling. Then she smiled and the world tilted on axis.

* * *

"Don't move a muscle," she whispered, her grin feral and voice quivering with ill-contained rage. In her hand, she tightly grasped a steak-knife pressed hard enough against his jugular to cause a slight indentation in the skin. Lisa chuckled at her own joke, pressing the man up against the dumpster even though her body was deceptively delicate looking. "Isn't that right, uncle Bob?" She mocked. "Watch the knife, I may slip."

"Now, Leese…"

"Don't call me that!" She screamed, pressing a little harder with her knife until a trickle off blood ran down his throat, pooling against a white collar. "Did you think I wouldn't recognize your voice? All this time, did you think I didn't know?"

"Know what?" He hedged.

"Notice the knife, Bob?" Lisa taunted. "How does it feel?"

"Why don't we talk about this?"

"Fuck you," she said coldly, her voice almost gentle. She was a quick-study. Bob's eyes widened, not at the foul curse-words coming out of her sweet, tiny mouth, but at the quick push of her wrist against the artery in his neck, and the smile on her lips as his blood gushed and spurted against her pale face. His eyes remained opened and shocked, even after they were unable to see the world. If they could, they would have seen her slump to the ground in shock, and then focus on the shadows with wild eyes.

Lisa could taste the death in her mouth, the blood metallic and warm. She felt chilled.

"Cold blooded murder, Leese?" A familiar voice mocked her from the shadows, she wanted to inform him that the blood was anything but cold, but that would be slightly insane. Plus, if anyone knew that fact, it would be Jackson Rippner. "And in my modus operandi, too. Makes me hard just thinking about it."

"Shut up," she whispered, scooting away from both him and the dead body on her right. "You're supposed to be dead." She pointed out rationally.

"Yes, and you're also supposed to be the moral and good one of the two of us."

"It was self defense," she hissed, fingernails digging, breaking, and bleeding on the hard cement beneath her fingers.

Jackson laughed, rocking back on his heels as if she had just hit him with a hilarious joke or well-aimed punch. "Self defense," he mocked. "The man was unarmed."

"He was armed with his job; his position. Did you know, after the attack… the first one, he took on the case as a favour to my dad?"

Jackson went silent, watching her with clear blue eyes that were both his best feature and his worst. She knew, just by looking into those orbs which could hold both the hate of the world and the compassion of one man, that he understood. "Listen to me, Leese." She didn't object to his usage of her name. "You're going to take a shower. Make sure the blood doesn't touch anything in the house. Then hide the clothes. Burn them."

"Why?"

"I'm going to help you cover this up, but only if you listen to me."

"What can you possibly do."

"I think a note will suffice."

"A note?" Lisa questioned. Her laughter was harsh and tinged with uncertainty and fear. "What good will that do? 'Dear police, Lisa didn't do it. I swear. Love Jackson Rippner.'"

He smiled sardonically. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'Leese. Your father is next.' Though we can certainly keep the 'Love Jackson' part, if that's what you like."

"You're nuts," she told him, standing up slowly and eying him wearily. She did listen to his advice, as his words were valid and she knew he was aware of what he was doing. Resigned, she handed him the knife and felt relieved that it was out of her hands, but also that she had been the one who instigated her own revenge. She took the back stairs, becoming more and more relaxed with every step, until finally she reached her bedroom and started to strip. By the time she stepped into the tub, a smile was on her face and she was humming. She decided instead to take a hot bath. The water sloughed the blood off her skin, tingeing the liquid a lovely pink. She sifted her hand through it, bathing in her rapist's blood.

Finally, Lisa stood, wiping the water away with a towel and stepping out of the bathroom without emptying the tub. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn't detect the pained pinch to the corner of her eyes which appeared whenever she saw the scar. She cocked her head to the side, contemplating her image. She knew that soon the haunted circles beneath her eyes would disappear. Celebrating the purifying of her soul, she donned a pair of white pajamas and sat on her bed, wanting to sleep and repeat the solution to all her problems in her dreams.

"Don't you look cute," Jackson told her, stepping out of the shadowed hallway and walking up to the side of her bed without invitation. He'd already been there, and she wondered if the renovations her father had done to the house had thrown him at all. Of course, her room remained static throughout the ages, and this was the first time in years she felt as though she deserved to be there.

She grinned at him, looking like a child of twenty-seven. "Note finished?" She asked.

"Of course," he answered with a shrug, his efficiency too obvious to question. He sat on the edge of her bed, fingers playing along the one of the wrinkles in the sheet her leg caused. "I brought you a present."

"Really?" She questioned, eyebrow rising over suspicious yet delighted eyes. She cupped her hands together, anticipating what he could possibly give her. He didn't do anything clichéd, like demanding she close her eyes, but the presentation was the same.

"Sure," he told her, dropping a bloody, severed penis into her outstretched grasp.

Lisa gasped, then grinned up at him. "Thanks," she said, pleased and yet slightly disturbed. Questions flowed through her brain at a rapid speed. Why hadn't she thought of it first? Quickly followed by: How did he know her so well?

"Leese?" a male voice asked, and at first she had assumed it was Jackson speaking again, but immediately realized it was her father.

"Yes daddy?" She called back.

"Are you talking to someone?" Her father asked, stepping into her bedroom and giving her a tender smile.

She and her father looked at each other for a moment. Lisa was hesitant to admit who she was having a conversation with, but it was rather obvious that her father could see Jackson beside her on the bed. "He's right here," she told him, gesturing with her head to her once-upon-a-time attacker. Maybe, she would find a way to get his penis in her hands as well, but in a completely different way.

"Who is, baby?"

"Jackson," she told her father with a frown.

Jackson started laughing. "You said it yourself, Leese." Her name was said with a sardonic fondness. "I'm dead."

"He's right here beside me," she insisted, shooting a frown at her father. Why was he blind? He couldn't see his friend for what he was; couldn't see Jackson; couldn't see that she really was right as rain.

"I'm really not," he intersected, blue eyes shining, pining her with the truth.

"There's no one there," her father told her with a concerned frown. "Are you alrig…"

"I'm fine," Lisa insisted.

"Did Bob leave?"

Bob! She frowned. He was turning his worry towards BOB. Lisa smiled at her dad, deceptively sweet. "No, he's right here," she responded, gesturing with her hands cupped around Bob's severed penis. Once her father realized what was in her grasp, he gave a startled scream.

Lisa grinned, then started to chuckle. As her laughter chimed through every shadowed corner of the house, bubbling and growing frantic, her father stood helplessly and watched. Jackson, always one for action, leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You're the insane one," he endeared.

Lisa cradled her arms to her chest, still giggling like a haunted child.

* * *

©RelenaFanel.July22.2006.

I meant this to be a romance, I really did. If you got this far, kudos to you. I'm sure Jackson's perceived OOCness threw some of you off, however, it is understandable to an extent now that you know he was only an epitomized character in Lisa's thoughts after she cracked. If you look deeper into it, you could say he was that side of her bent on revenge. I'm pretty sure a lot of people would snap under similar circumstances. :shrugs: But it is up to you whether it is believable or not.


End file.
